


Inverse Omens Anniversary Drabblefest

by Fyre



Series: Inverse Omens [7]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Good Omens Celebration 2020, Part of the Inverse Omens universe, Reverse role
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24459184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: A series of daily Inverse Omens drabbles for the month of Good Omens Celebration (May 1-31st)
Series: Inverse Omens [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1482338
Comments: 13
Kudos: 64





	Inverse Omens Anniversary Drabblefest

**Author's Note:**

> The Good omens Celebration tumblr ran a list of prompts from 1st-30th of May, so I decided to do an Inverse Omens drabble for every one. Exactly 100 words, they run in chronological order and fit into the main timeline. At some point, I may add the dates. A lot of them are self-explanatory :)

**In The Beginning**

Aziraphale didn’t have much time for angels anymore. Vile, murderous hypocrites. He’d been quite delighted by the idea of bothering the guardians of their precious Eden.

What he hadn’t expected was the flustered copper-haired mess who had shown up and shooed him like a naughty pet.

Nor had he expected the water – precipitation, apparently – from the sky. The terror of divine retribution didn’t have a chance to sink its claws in. Not before the mess of an angel was in his personal space, shielding him with his skinny body and wings.

It seemed he might have time for _one_ angel.

**Contrast**

The humans were doing that… rest thing.

Crowley sat by the fire – lit from the flaming sword – and watched as the bigger one tucked himself around the smaller, limbs surrounding her. Together.

Heaven didn’t… do that. Occasionally, you had a colleague, but no one curled together for safety. Not as they did.

Not…

Not as he had in the garden. Sheltered. Together.

He’d found a pale feather, clinging to his robe after he found the humans. Still had it. He slipped his hand inside his robe, touched it. Couldn’t leave demon bits lying around. That was all.

That was all.

**Unexpected**

Aziraphale didn’t leave the Garden at once.

There hadn’t been any smiting and outside was – quite frankly – dry and dusty. When the rain let up, he’d slipped into the undergrowth, but he had no desire to go, not when there was ripe – forbidden – fruit hanging tantalisingly on trees entirely unguarded.

All the angels were gone now.

No humans to guard, after all.

That damp copper-haired angel standing at the foot of the tree, scribbling on a wax tablet, caught him by surprise. Babbling to himself too. Aziraphale withdrew, shaking his head. Poor little bastard, that one. Mad as a hatter.

**Force**

“What’s that?”

Eve smiled up at him. “A new trick!” She held up…

Crowley crouched down, picking it up cautiously. It looked like dozens of hair fibres twisted together into a long thread. “Oh!”

“It’s strong,” she laughed. “Pull it.”

He tugged with gentle force, but it held fast. “What’s it for?”

She reached into her reed basket, pulling out a folded bundle, blooming with pride. “I made this.”

Crowley unfolded it, fighting a smile. It was a tiny robe, carefully stitched.

“Like yours,” she said, patting his sleeve. “For the baby.”

Crowley’s heart stuttered. “Oh.”

Like yours.

Like _you_.

**Miscommunication**

Humans were fascinating little monsters. Very easily led. You simply had to point out a temptation. Not even recommend doing it. Just… observe it was there, and they came to the decision themselves.

Aziraphale rather liked that. Everything they chose to do – or not – was entirely of their own volition.

Like that time he’d observed that the statue they had made of… some God or other was impressive, but weren’t the stars – in such abundance and beauty – more remarkable?

He hadn’t told them to start praying to them, and yet…

He chuckled.

Heaven wouldn’t be happy about that at all.

**Rescue**

Crowley wasn’t surprised to sense a demon at the tower. A rude gesture at Heaven demanded a demonic presence. He trotted over to the balustrade to peer down and, involuntarily, smiled.

Of course it was _him_.

A voice cried out above him – in some unfamiliar language – and he turned. The scaffold to the next level gave way. People shouted in a dozen different tongues, but the people – and the demon among them – below didn’t understand.

Crowley reached out. _Pulled_.

Boulders crashed down, rolling harmlessly aside, and all that was left in their wake was confusion.

Before anyone noticed, Crowley fled.

**Alternate Universe**

The famine was worsening.

Crops had failed and people were starving. It was not a time made for temptations as Aziraphale enjoyed them. There were few pleasures to be had, none that he cared to lure people to, despite orders from below.

They urged violence, greed and chaos.

There was no artistry to it, no passion. No joy, not when families wasted away and angels were abroad, urging retribution for the faithful.

If he had remained an angel, he might have found other pleasures. Kindness. Peace.

Instead, he whispered gentle sloth into their ears and, without pain, the humans rested.

**Family**

Far below the bustling streets, small chambers remained that had once been homes, walls still visible, weighted down with centuries of buildings.

Crowley eased his way beneath an ancient doorway into a place that had once been sacred. Forgotten now. He slipped off his sandals and walked onwards.

The tomb was small, the first of its kind.

Humming a lullaby, he brushed the dust of last century’s flowers aside and laid a fresh wreath. She had taught him that too. Cloth and flowers. Kindness. Friendship. And where he was welcome.

Then he sat. “It’s me,” he said. “Like I promised.”

**Doubt**

“Really?”

Beelzebub narrowed their eyes. “You have quezzzzztions?”

Aziraphale unrolled his assignment again. “They witnessed the plagues and now I’m to draw them away from divine wonder? I mean, they…” He waved a hand. “Genocide! All the firstborn! Won’t that have put the fear of the Almighty into them?”

The Duke bared their teeth. “That izzz what you must challenge.”

Aziraphale re-read the scroll. “Right. Find them in the desert and… do something to get them in disgrace again. Simple. Obviously.”

In hindsight, it made sense. Hungry, tired, frustrated people always made poor decisions. And, it turned out, golden calves.

**Miracle**

There were orders to observe and nothing more.

Crowley always hated those missions, knowing there would be suffering and a blessing to be gifted at the bitter end. The subject in question was a woman, who had been labouring, her child on her back, over the mountains.

His fingers itched to reach out, offer her a hand, especially when she faltered and grew weary.

Other travellers passed, but none stopped or help.

“Please,” Crowley breathed, “someone, please.”

And then… another woman, equally burdened. She saw. She smiled. She stopped.

Crowley’s relief was like a tide.

A miracle of another kind.

**Old Fashioned**

“Angel!”

The skinny creature whipped around, panic relaxing into something not unlike relief. “Oh. It’s just you.”

“‘Just you’,” Aziraphale echoed, amused. “You make me feel quite unimpressive.”

“Never said that.” Crowley fidgeted, flushing. “Um. So.” He glanced away, then back. “What d’you want?”

“Want?” Aziraphale shrugged. “A warm bed and a flexible lover to– oh dear, am I _embarrassing_ you?”

The angel glowered at him. “No.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched. He cracked open the pomegranate he was carrying. “A peace offering, then.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

That, it seemed was the right answer, and another creature succumbed to his fruit-based temptation.

**Memory**

Crowley stood in silence, watching as the sheets of fabric – bright with dye – caught on the breeze. The colours were so vivid, scarlets and blues, but his mind had taken him to another place where animal hair was twisted into strands and painstakingly prodded through sheets of lovingly-made cloth.

They didn’t have dye then. Ochre, sometimes. Saffon too. Muted tints from plants. But nothing like the reds and blues snapping in the air.

She would have liked it, he knew. She would have worn every colour she could. And sometimes, he wished he was bold enough to do that himself.

**Unlucky**

“What the hell was _that_?”

“Um.” The angel looked very embarrassed.

“ _Bears_? Isn’t that a _bit_ of an overreaction?”

“Ah… they weren’t…” Crowley fidgeted and Aziraphale almost felt sorry for him. “I didn’t realise how fast they were!”

Aziraphale rubbed at his eyes, then peered between his fingers. “Or how slow those unfortunate lads were,” he said, waving a hand, giving a couple an extra turn of speed. “Satan preserve us, angel.”

The angel’s mortified expression turned distraught. “I only meant to scare them a bit.”

Aziraphale stared at him, then snorted. “I think we can safely say you succeeded.”

**Food**

The Archangel was ranting.

Crowley wasn’t really listening, staring at his hands in his lap. He’d had a small pot bubbling on his fire. Had, being the operative word. Gabriel had sneered and banished it along with the broth.

Something about ‘gross matter’. Something about ‘too human’. The usual. Always wrong. Never right. Never enough. More smiting, less biding. Like that Samson. More like that.

“Yes, Gabriel,” he said quietly.

Even after the Archangel left, the weight of his attention lingered. Crowley stared at his pots, bowls and cups. And like Gabriel had, though his hand shook, he banished them.

**Through the Years**

Once in a while, Aziraphale spotted a certain angel. Most of the time, they stayed out of one another’s way, but as time passed, Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice the little bugger grew gaunter every year.

Corporations were simple things. You didn’t even _need_ to sustain them, but from the look of Crowley, he wasn’t even trying.

Aziraphale mulled on it, long after he should have ceased caring. What was one miserable angel to a demon? It ought to have made him happy.

And yet…

One day, he decided, he’d tempt him to eat something. A little sin might help.

**Far Future**

Crowley always liked the night best of all.

The peace of it, starlight smudged across the deep indigo sky, as lamps cast golden glows through the cracks of shutters and windows. Little miracles could happen at night, families gathered around the hearth, close and warm, the very best of humanity coming together as they broke bread and shared wine.

Sometimes, he would sit, quiet and unseen, and simply watch over them.

One day, when it was safe, when the threats and blades and memories didn’t chillingly brush the nape his neck, he would once more sit down with them again.

**Holiday**

While Aziraphale would never profess to be overly enthused about religion, he had to admit that the trend of holy days were quite delightful. Especially when they veered in the dramatic directions.

In this particular case, literally so with the most skilled of actors upon the stage in their masks and the hushed awe and reverence of the crowd as masters of stagecraft rumbled imaginary thunder and raised aloft divine creatures.

Wine flowed and food vendors moved among the tiers of the theatre.

This, the demon thought blissfully, this was what humanity was about. Such enthusiasm and creativity and _delight_.

**Wayward**

He’d been a good angel, hadn’t he? Done what he was told, eh? Mostly ‘xactly what he was told.

Crowley peered gloomily into his cup, hiccupping.

Done what he was told and spikes and whips and nails and… and _rubbish_. All loads of rubbish and… and… and they told him ‘good job’. ‘Well done’. Shiny medal and ‘making up for lost time’.

Least, he thought, they thought he was a good angel now. Properer angel. Obed– do-what-told angel. No more… whatevering. With the eyes. And Michael. Bloody Michael. Always ‘got an eye on you’.

He waved a hand. “Nother drinkie!”

**Stars**

Sometimes, Aziraphale contemplated the heavens.

Not the Heavens. Just… the sky, all the glittering splendour of it, whether by day or by night. It changed moment to moment, never the same. He rather liked it for that reason. Not stagnant or fixed, like the Heavens. Or Hell for that matter.

He’d had no part in the building of the celestial spheres, a soldier through and through, but he appreciated the artistry and handiwork that must have gone into their creation.

And some nights, he would find a quiet rooftop or an open plain and sit and indulge in his admiration.

**Poetry**

Humans were fascinating creatures. Always had been. They never stopped asking the big questions, trying to take apart the universe piece by piece, examining it, trying to make some kind of sense of it all.

Crowley loved watching them do it, seeing what they learned, and what they did with it.

There were people with skills across the world, some with two or three. And sometimes, the stars aligned, and a brain that sparked like divine fire was born. They were people that changed the world, brilliant and dazzling, like heroes in the epic poems.

Crowley _really_ liked those ones.

**Garden**

“What on earth are you doing?”

The angel flinched as if caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. “What?”

Aziraphale gestured to the… frankly rural clothing and… stick-thing he was prodding at the ground. “This. What’s this in aid of?”

“Working the soil isn’t hurting anyone.” Crowley said defensively.

“No. I expect poking it only upsets the worms.”

Crowley stared at him, then grinned crookedly. “No, look.” He crouched down and tugged away some tangled weeds, revealing a small shoot. He cupped his hands like it was precious. “New life, breaking through.”

Aziraphale had never seen him look happier.

**Home**

Marble stone glistened eerily by the lamplight as an angel, moved through the pillared halls.

The priests were all abed, only an acolyte tending the lamps. He didn’t notice the figure of shadow and flame.

Crowley made his way onwards, into the holiest of places.

“Just me,” he said softly, as he entered, dropping the veil of the sanctuary behind him. “Passing through.” He undid his cloak, shaking out. “Have you see this place? Beautiful stonework. Just them, some rocks and tools.”

As always, no reply came.

And as always, he curled on his cloak on the floor, and slept.

**Cursed**

“It was been most… impressive.”

Aziraphale swept into a bow, hoping his distaste didn’t show too visibly on his face. “I aim to give satisfaction in all things, my Lord.”

Beelzebub’s upper lip twitched. “And how did you get it to spread so far and so fast?”

He hadn’t. The pestilence had sprung up east of the Euphrates and been carried, as such things always were, by trade and commerce. Following food and business, riding on the tails of animals and the coattails of humanity.

And of course, all of Hell believed it was Aziraphale’s doing.

“ _That_ is my curse.”

**Dream**

A jolt of terror spurred Crowley awake.

Darkness filled the room, but little by little, his eyes adjusted to the faint watery moonlight spreading through the bubbled glass of the windows. He sagged against the wall, breathing hard. All solid and real around him. Wooden floor. Whitewashed wall. The patched and frayed remains of his ancient blanket around his shoulders.

Not there. Not _then_. Not standing by as the celestial paths broke open with the sound of screams.

He pressed his eyes shut, then gasped, opening them again.

Not staring into betrayed blue eyes as they fell away from him.

**Glorious**

Once in a while, as part of the Arrangement, Aziraphale had to manifest. It wasn’t as if he didn’t enjoy a spot of showmanship at the best of times, but with a manifestation, it took a good deal more work.

With a manifestation, people had to _believe_ they were seeing an angel. And as angry as he remained with Heaven as a whole and Her in particular, he could still remember what that meant. And, like a mask, he could don it, an emissary of Crowley’s goodness.

He stepped from the shadows, spread pale wings, and, shining, thought of Crowley.

**Scars**

The polished panels in the vestry shone in the morning light. Crowley squinted at his distorted reflection, gingerly touching his throat.

Bethlem’s restraints had cut deep, the bruise dark. A cautious ripple dulled the ache to a bearable level, and only then did he slip out into daylight. Shoes found their way into his hands and a coat, and by the time he reached London proper, he almost looked himself again.

The mark would fade. They always did. It just took time.

Still, as night fell, he sought out Aziraphale. Just to make sure the nightmares had only been that.

**Road Trip**

“Isn’t this fantastic?”

Aziraphale clutched at the edge of the seat, forcing a smile. “A little on the fast side, don’t you think?”

“Fast? It’s not hit a straight yet.” The angel glanced at him. He didn’t seem to mind the smoke belching from the engine or the rattling along the tracks. In fact, he was positively glowing with delight, which normally would have been quite the distraction.

Unfortunately, they were in the new-fangled steam train and Aziraphale was certain he was about to prove demons could in fact get travel sick.

Damn, he thought, clinging harder to the seat.

**Culture**

“Not in the mood to celebrate?”

Crowley didn’t have to turn around, his arms folded on the edge of the roof. “Not really.”

The city’s landscape had changed after years of war and the Blitz. But not just here. He’d seen other countries, worlds apart, and so much suffering everywhere. He’d walked through flames. He’d held hands, answering what prayers he could, even when he wasn’t meant to.

Aziraphale came to stand at his side. “This one will change things.”

“For the better?” Crowley asked quietly.

The demon was silent for a moment, then squeezed his shoulder. “We can hope.”

**Apocalypse**

Aziraphale ruefully examined his naked reflection in the mirror.

Unfortunately, the Antichrist was too small to require a tutor, which meant there was only one way to guarantee direct access. With a flourish, curves arranged themselves, prominent of bosom, generous of hip.

Technically, she had no reason to sow discord in the Dowling house, but the less attention the parents paid to their child, the simpler it would be. She’d read all the files. It would be too easy. An adamantly ‘manly’ man and his wife with delusions of class.

“Well,” she sighed, giving her breasts a jiggle. “Needs must.”

**The End**

It was done.

Crowley swayed where he sat, staring blankly out the window. His forehead bumped against the glass and he blinked, puzzled. Tired. He was so bloody tired.

“No, darling,” Aziraphale murmured.

No? No what? Had he said something? He squinted at the demon, baffled.

Aziraphale gave him a small smile and patted his shoulder, leaving Crowley even more confused. Nothing there but… Aziraphale gazed at him, worried and fond. Ah. AH! A pillow!

Why not? After everything, why the hell not? S’not like Heaven didn’t know already.

Defiantly, quietly-thrilling, Crowley rested his head on his beloved demon’s shoulder.


End file.
